


Shelter

by Wallwalker



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran's lover asks the assassin to give him his very first tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 14 of [In A Word](http://dragonageinaword.tumblr.com/). The prompt was "Ink."

Zevran had done this more than once, at least - the Crows had been fond of tattoos, and he'd given more than one of his mates a tattoo, a few in rather sensitive places. Still, this was the first time he'd ever been asked to give someone their very first tattoo. Darrien's back was marked only by scars; he traced his fingers around a few of them, careful to avoid the one that he'd put there himself, the dagger to the back during his own ambush. But there was enough unblemlished skin to leave plenty of room for what he had in mind.

"You are sure that you want this?" Zevran said, wiping the place clean with strong spirits. The inks, dyes and needles were clean and ready. "These tattooes are quite difficult to remove once they have been completed."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I do, Zev?" he said, looking back over his shoulder, smiling. His dark skin flexed charmingly over sinewy muscles.

"One last time, apparently." He chuckled under his breath. "You will need to stay still, of course. I need to plan the design before I begin."

"I can manage that," he said, putting his head down. He stayed mostly silent, after that, even after the planning ended, and Zevran went to work with his needles.

\---

_"You want me to tattoo you?"_

_Darrien smiled up at him. It had been difficult to get used to his height at first, as the man was as strong and as dominating a personality as he'd ever seen, stronger than men half again his height and weight. He barely noticed, now; they had been together long enough and often enough that Zevran knew him, now, from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet. He knew exactly where to touch and when, and which places were best avoided. "Why not?"_

_Zevran shook his head. "It's an unusual request," he said. "I have many skills, but this sort of artistry is not usually regarded as one of them."_

_"But you do know how to do it. You've said as much. And who else would I ask to do this?" He leaned in close, speaking softly in Zevran's ear. "There's no one else I'd trust at my back more than you."_

_Zevran couldn't help but smile. "All right," he said. "Under two conditions. First of all, I want to choose the mark myself."_

_"I was going to ask you to do that anyway. I'm no artist." Darrien cocked his head. "What's the second thing?"_

_"I would prefer if you never ask me what the mark means."_

_Darrien blinked, clearly startled, his mouth half-open as if to protest._

_"Please, my Darrien," Zevran said quickly, realizing how foolish and strange his request must sound. He coughed nervously, clearing his throat before continuing. "Such things are... often a tradition amongst Antivan lovers," he said, voice as steady as he could manage. "A... a mark of trust."_

_Darrien glanced away, but just for a moment; when he looked back his voice was as irreverent as ever. "Is that all? I thought you might want some sort of favor in return."_

_"Why would I ask for such things," he teased back, "when I already know you will give them to me?" But it wasn't until Darrien laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing tightly before he let go, that Zevran felt himself relax._

\---

"There," Zevran finally said, discarding the last soiled needle and taking a quick glance at the dressings on Darrien's back. "It will take some time to heal, but not terribly long."

"Hm." Darrien was twisting around - as if he'd see anything but bandages, at least for the moment. Wouldn't do to risk infection. "Didn't hurt as badly as I expected."

"Yes, well, I suppose that a few pinpricks dull in comparison to the claws and fangs of darkspawn, don't they?" 

"No, not to mention swords and daggers - oh, blast it," he said as Zevran flinched, if only slightly. "I'm sorry, Zev. I didn't mean anything by that. I barely even felt yours."

"Didn't you?" he said, trying his best to make a joke of it. "I must be losing my touch."

Darrien came up behind him, wincing slightly as he stood - despite his bravado, Zevran knew he would be sore for a week, at least. Hopefully things would stay calm for some time, and the tattoo would at least have a chance to heal before it was ruined by some gemlock's claws. "Zev," he said. "I mean it. I'm an insensitive ass at times, but I truly do trust you."

"I know." He felt Darrien's arms wrap around his waist, and reached down to take his hands. "It is only the last remnants of a guilty conscience speaking. Pay it no mind."

Darrien planted a kiss on the back of his neck. "Don't worry. Maker knows, you've more than made up for it."

Zevran smiled. He knew that Darrien would see the symbol that he'd left on his back soon enough, of course. And he was canny enough that he would eventually find out what it meant; he'd only promised that he would not ask _Zevran_ about it, after all. It was an old symbol, the sort of thing that was not considered entirely appropriate to mark anyone with unless they were a part of the loose brotherhood of street-thieves in Antiva, but Zevran really didn't think anyone would object to it, not in Ferelden. It was an old mark, used by people on the streets in his home city, though not often on its people. Usually it was seen scratched on stone or wood of safe havens. The mark's meanings were simple - trust, warmth, safety. It marked a source of shelter in a dangerous world. Zevran thought that he could look throughout Thedas for a truer expression of how he felt, and never find it.

"Always good to hear," he finally answered, before turning to steal a kiss from his lover's lips. The rest of the evening would be pleasant enough, he was sure, although they'd have to be careful; there were certain acts that would be particularly uncomfortable that evening, if they were not careful.


End file.
